She repeated the mantra in her head as he dumped their barely touched salads down the garbage disposal with a fierce scowl. She had the insane urge to press her lips against the crease between his eyebrows.
How had the night turned so quickly from dreaded family dinner to downright sexy?
The taciturn, irritable version of Gray never made her feel off-balance. But this flirty, sweet version made her wary. This Gray could too easily slip past her guard, and the last thing she needed was to fall for someone who would never approve of her. Throwing a few morale boosters her way was one thing, but someone like Gray would never be in a serious relationship with someone as unfocused as her. Hell, Brian had been a freaking nomad, and even he thought she was floating aimlessly through life.
The thought depressed her more than it should. Most of the time she couldn’t stand Gray, and now she was thinking about a relationship?
They needed to abort this cozy chatter before she did something crazy. Like grab the lapels of his crisp white shirt and kiss him senseless. And every instinct in her body told her that getting personal with Grayson Wyatt could only lead to heartbreak.
“Can I help with the main course?” she asked too loudly.
He glanced up, looking relieved that she wasn’t going to continue their bonding moment. He’d probably reached his quota of emotional availability for the year.
“You can chop the parsley,” he replied. “You can’t possibly mess that up.”
“Gee, thanks,” she said, sliding off the bar stool. “Do you have an extra cutting board?”
He slid the garlic he was mincing to the right side of his cutting board and gestured to the space he’d just cleared. “Grab a knife. Parsley’s in the produce drawer of the fridge.”
Unsurprisingly, his fridge was both well stocked and well organized. She took her time browsing through the assortment of fancy cheeses and meats and wide array of produce. It had more variety than her local grocery store, she marveled as she checked out some expensive-looking ham.
“Quit fondling my meat, and just get the damn parsley.”
“Cliché sexual references, boss? I didn’t think that was your style,” she said as she grabbed the parsley and a knife and settled beside him at the cutting board.
Despite her intention to keep things completely professional between them, she couldn’t help but notice the domestic coziness of them sharing a cutting board. He seemed to think the same, because his eyes slid to hers and he gave her a shy smile.
She followed the motion of his hands as he adeptly minced several garlic cloves. He looked so at home with his cooking utensils. It was strange to think that the same hands deftly handling the chef knife were the ones she’d seen typing, holding a phone, or shooing her out of his office.
Awkwardly, Sophie began chopping the parsley. She’d never thought much about her chopping technique before. She’d watched plenty of Food Network and could whip up the occasional spaghetti or stir-fry without embarrassing herself. But after watching him go all Julia Child on her, she felt strangely inept.
Her eyes slid again to his hands, trying to mimic what he was doing. Noticing that he used shorter, more efficient chopping movements, she tried the same—
“Ouch!” she exclaimed. “Son of a…”
She’d never exactly been keen on blood, and the sight of red fluid covering her hand had her swaying.
“What the hell?” Gray said, grabbing her by the wrist. “You’ve cut yourself!”
“Wow, nothing slips by you.” she said dazedly, staring down at her bloody hand. It was hard to see around the Braveheart-worthy puddle of blood, but it looked like a major gash was running along her index and middle fingers right below the knuckle.
“You’re going to need stitches,” Gray muttered.
“Just get me a Band-Aid,” she said, humiliation beginning to sink in around the queasiness. “It’s only a little nick.”
But Gray had grasped her wrist and wrapped a towel around her fingers. “Into the car, now. We’re going to the ER.”
“Are you freaking kidding me? Just get me another glass of wine and another towel or something. Maybe some tape.” Her hand began to throb. “Actually, make that wine a whiskey. But I’m not going to the hospital because I cut myself chopping parsley.”
“I can see your bone, Sophie,” he said as he ushered her out of the apartment, down a stairwell, and into the garage. Throbbing finger or no, she wasn’t so out of it that she didn’t notice the careful way he tucked all of her limbs into his black BMW or the way he quickly ran his hand over her hair.
Then again, that could have been the woozy at work.
“Just great. I’m even a failure at cutting herbs,” she muttered, throwing her head back against the headrest and clutching the towel more closely around her fingers. The blood had soaked through the folded dish towel and she was beginning to realize the sheer stupidity of what she’d done. She couldn’t even blame the wine. Sure, she’d had a glass, but most of her intoxication had been from watching the man next to her.